


Independent 06 - An’ Foolish Notion

by Aadler



Series: Independent Stories [6]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aadler/pseuds/Aadler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s my party (not), and I’ll slay if I want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**Banner by[SRoni](http://sroni.livejournal.com)**

**An’ Foolish Notion**  
by Aadler  
**Copyright June 2007**

* * *

Disclaimer: Characters from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and _Angel: the Series_ are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

 **Acknowledgment:** This story is a remix (done for [Gen_Remix](http://community.livejournal.com/gen_remix)) of the ficlet “[Trick or Treat](http://sroni2004.livejournal.com/32058.html)”, by [SRoni](http://sroni.livejournal.com).

* * *

Doomed. There was no other word for it. They were all doomed.

Buffy sat behind the railing at the second level of the Hyperion Hotel, her knees drawn up in front of her, glowering through the bars at the scene unfolding in the lobby below her. A samurai long-sword hung diagonally across her back, with two shorter ones sheathed at either hip. Stakes were up her sleeves, and more rested in sewn pockets inside the vest she wore; a girl could never carry too many stakes. A knife in either boot, a chain-flail ( _manriki,_ Satsu called it) around her waist, holy water bottles in cargo pockets … Any more gear would have compromised her mobility, and she needed to be able to move quickly. Tonight, it all depended on her.

Which was totally not her fault. She’d _tried_ to tell them. But would anybody listen?

Halloween was supposed to be the safest day of the year. The Watchers’ files all said so, and Giles had always faithfully repeated the party line. (She couldn’t actually blame him for the current situation, he hadn’t come with them this time. But still.) Never mind chaos mages, fear demons, and various ookies who just never got the memo: Halloween was _safe,_ because demons were way too genteel to pay attention to human traditions.

Uh-huh. Got it.

Too many people had memories that argued against the Watcher-lore; hence, the eventual habit (unvoiced, but growing into something like tradition) of gathering together on that particular evening, in a place completely under their control. Group solidarity, strength in numbers, plenty of able bodies to watch each other’s backs … Good so far.

Until this year. This year, they had to go and make it a  _party._

Hello, people? Us? Parties? _Disaster?_ Birthdays were the worst — especially hers — but after just so many apocalyptic Christmases and homecoming dances and fraternity bashes and even a haunted Thanksgiving, you’d think somebody would begin to sense a recurring theme. But _no-o-ooo._ Why not paint big freaking targets all over themselves?

She hadn’t literally said that, but maybe she had thought it too loud. _(Wow, cool idea, Buffy! Let’s do that, everybody!)_ As if in defiance of past history, the decision had somehow been made that it would be a costume party.

Cue the _Twilight Zone_ theme.

At the first suggestion of costumes, Buffy had announced flatly, “You want a masquerade? Fine. I’ll dress up as a Slayer. A  _heavily armed_ Slayer. So start picking out decorations that won’t clash with lots of weaponry.”

A wet blanket tossed square into the middle of the party plans. Only, instead of a fizzle, it had somehow morphed into inspiration. Come as you are … with irony.

It was Xander who started the wacky-ball rolling — wow, gee, never saw _that_ one coming! — by announcing he’d be dressed as a pirate, or maybe Sergeant Fury. (Andrew’s protest that Fury didn’t start wearing the eye-patch till after his Howling Commando days was airily waved away; Xander had never let his imagination be confined by troublesome facts.) Unexpectedly, though, Angel was the next to seize on the notion, and the rest fell in with an eager enthusiasm that had Buffy wondering darkly about idiocy spells.

Maybe the whole thing was a stress reaction. That wouldn’t make it any less _insane,_ but at least it offered a plausible alternative explanation. After Angel had argued her into letting him stay for the final battle with the First, it had only made sense for him to put up the busload of refugees at the Hyperion until further plans could be worked out. Before then, he and Buffy had carefully kept their worlds separate for four solid years; with one more joint apocalypse behind them, though — and with the bonds that had formed between Team Angel and the battle-dazed Scoobies in their mutual grieving over the comatose Cordelia — the decision had somehow been made that they would all get together periodically. And they had … but the visits hadn’t always gone smoothly.

Not her fault. _She_ hadn’t known that the mysterious-and-disturbingly-hot Drogyn Battlebrand was actually an imposter named Lindsey McDonald, or that he was using her in some subtle game against Angel. And she had _not_ had sex with him just for revenge on her ex; that had been an even worse surprise for her than for Angel. It had left ugly memories, though, and along with the other stuff that had cropped up meanwhile and since — Gunn’s unexpected animosity toward Robin, whatever had been the misunderstanding between Fred and Willow, Andrew’s awful mishandling of the situation with Crazy Dana — they’d had to work through more than a few issues.

It hadn’t stopped Angel from sending Lorne and Wesley to salvage that mess in Orvieto, though, or Buffy and Faith and a dozen other Slayers from helping him take down the Circle of the Black Thorn once Angel had decided it was time to move. (And who would have expected _Fred_ to be the powerhouse in that particular battle? Note to self: with or without magic mojo, freaky intelligence is not to be underestimated.) They were still two separate groups, but the ties between them had continued, gradually and haltingly, to strengthen.

So here they were again. Back at the Hyperion. At a freaking is-everybody-out-of-their-minds-here _costume party._

Below her, the proceedings continued with awful inevitability, and she could only watch, appalled but queasily fascinated.

There was a heavy movie theme going, or at least a strong pop-culture influence. Angel was decked out in full Dracula regalia (the Bela Lugosi version, not the one who’d brought his own castle to Sunnydale): crimson-lined cape, red sash across his chest, lips rouged and hair moussed flat with an exaggerated widow’s peak added in what looked like eyeliner. Nor did it end with the costume, he was acting every bit as goony as the worst of the descriptions Willow had reported from telephone conversations with Cordelia. Who would ever have guessed that the gorgeous, brooding hunk in the leather jacket and white wife-beater would turn out to be such a  _world-class dork?_

Gunn had harkened back to his past history as a vampire fighter, and donned black leather and other accessories to come dressed as Blade. It looked good on him; in fact, Gunn looked seriously damned sexy. He couldn’t have pulled it off as well back when he kept his head shaved, but since he’d recently let his hair grow out again, it was simple for him to clip it in the style Wesley Snipes had used in the movie series. The tattoos, she presumed, were temporary, but the _ninja-to_ was no cinematic prop, her practiced eye picked it out as a serious working tool, probably drawn from the armory Angel had accumulated over the years. The muscles in his bare arms and chest, too, were a lot more ripped than she remembered; he must have put in some dedicated workout time once he’d said goodbye to his stint as a Wolfram  & Hart courtroom warrior.

Wesley looked good, too, but Buffy couldn’t understand his choice of costume. If her memory was right (and there was no way she could be sure, she came from a generation that thought of _the Breakfast Club_ as a golden oldie), he was decked out like Gary Cooper in _High Noon_. It suited him — the crisp, formal vest, the string tie, the elegantly shaped Stetson, the sheriff’s star on his chest — but why would Wesley Wyndham-Pryce see himself as a Wild West lawman? There had to be a story there, it was just a matter of deciding if she cared enough to find out what it was.

Faith … was Faith. With the leather jacket and motorcycle boots, maybe she was supposed to be a biker chick, but she’d dressed outrageously enough in the past that she didn’t really look all that different from usual. Hot as hell, happy and wild, comfortable (finally) with people who cared about her … When disaster hit, as it inevitably would, Buffy was confident she’d be able to toss Faith a spare sword and have instant backup, the other Slayer never totally let down her guard, but right now she was about as relaxed as Buffy had ever seen her.

There was music, though she didn’t recognize what was playing at the moment. There were jack-o-lanterns with wavering candles behind carved snaggletoothed grins. There was a tub where you could bob for apples if you wanted to make a  _total_ fool of yourself. Faith and Gunn were dancing together, looking like the opening act for some hardcore S &M. Angel was passing out cups of the punch, loudly and endlessly repeating the Lugosi line, “I do not drink … _vine.”_ And, oh my God, here came Andrew in round black-framed glasses and Gryffindor robes, his forehead showing a lightning-bolt scar in pink lipstick.

Oh, yeah. Definitely doomed.

Andrew was looking around with eager enthusiasm, and Buffy ducked back further from view. She couldn’t bear the thought of facing all that dweeby effusiveness (honestly, how could someone so totally ineffectual make you want so badly to run in the other direction?), so this was probably a good time to do another search for whatever calamity was guaranteed to be gathering itself.

She started with a sweep of the Hyperion’s kitchens. What would it be? demon roach infestation? portal into some slime dimension? hidden room with a horde of mystical ninjas waiting to spring out? The possibilities ran a lot farther than that, and she might not be able to imagine them all, but she swore by every bad holiday she’d had to live through over the past ten years, she’d be _ready_ for them!

Nothing. Most of the rooms and equipment weren’t used at all; some hadn’t been touched since the brief influx of new Slayers after the swallowing of Sunnydale. Buffy could remember Chao-Ahn setting a toaster on fire — yes, right there, you could still see the scorch marks on that wall — and for an instant she was surrounded by memory-ghosts: a myriad of young girls, bursting with power and exuberance and giddy with the joy of finding themselves still alive after living for so long with the certainty of their own deaths …

Of course, they were the ones who _had_ survived. Too many ghosts weren’t here at all because they’d never made it as far as the Hyperion.

She shook away the unexpected stab of melancholy, and moved on. Mopey Buffy was neither a cheery companion nor a vigilant sentinel. And tonight’s gathering truly was a beacon for catastrophe, so she needed to keep a sharp eye out, not waste her time wallowing in regret over things she _still_ didn’t see how she could have done any better.

Not much left on the ground floor that she hadn’t already covered. She might do a follow-up sweep later, but Buffy decided she’d take a look at a few of the upper levels first. Some of those rooms probably hadn’t been opened in close to sixty years, no telling what kind of hell-spawned scroty-ness might be percolating in them. She started across the lobby, automatically glancing through the glass of the double doors to be sure that no orc armies were gathering on the grounds outside, and likewise marking Andrew’s position so she could steer wide of it —

Willow caught her just before she could make it to the main stairs. “Hey, Buffy!” she called, with revolting chirpiness. “They said you were around somewhere. So, what do you think?”

It was never a good thing to feel on your face the blank called-on-in-class-while-daydreaming-about-Ryan-Phillippe look that was supposed to have been outgrown, oh, _forever_ ago. “Think? About what?”

Willow gave her a quick grin, raised her arms above her head, and twirled. “Ta-daa!” she said.

Ah. Costume. Willow was wearing a smart little black dress, heels, a single string of pearls, a frilly apron; her hair was fuller somehow, flipped up at the ends in a way Buffy couldn’t remember seeing on her before, and, oh! she hadn’t caught it till now because of the party lighting, but Willow had gone _blonde._ What in the world —?

“Wait, wait, you haven’t seen the whole thing yet.” Willow set herself, tilted her head, and abruptly twitched her mouth in a quick, familiar motion, to the accompaniment of a five-note sound effect.

“Okay, I get it,” Buffy said. “ _Bewitched._ So is the hair a glamour, too?”

Willow looked wounded. “Well, sure. You know I’d never _dye_ my hair.”

Right, because nobody was supposed to remember that it hadn’t been anywhere near so red when Buffy had first come to Sunnydale. Still, you didn’t argue with someone who could change the jetstream across North America with a temper-tantrum; at least, not over hair color. “Does this mean all the Glinda costumes had already been rented out?”

“Pshaw!” Willow said. (Yes, she actually said the word. With the ‘p’ clearly enunciated.) “Samantha was the first _modern_ witch. She broke new ground for all of us, and I for one am honored to honor her.” The mock-severity fell away, and she grinned. “This was a  _great_ idea, Buffy! Look, everybody’s having a wonderful time!”

“Good,” Buffy said. “I’m glad.” _Glad nobody took me seriously. Glad my absolutely sincere warning was turned into a party theme. Check me out, I’m just skipping for joy._ “Look, I need to visit the ladies’ —”

She stopped. She had one foot on the stairs, her getaway was nearly accomplished, but she simply couldn’t move until she had an explanation for what she was seeing. “Willow?”

Her friend smiled at her. “Mm-hmm?”

“Why is Fred wearing a fur sarong? And —” She looked closer. “And a chicken bone in her hair?”

Willow followed Buffy’s gaze, and clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, that’s _priceless!”_ At Buffy’s still-bumfuzzled expression, she said, “Don’t you see it? She’s Wilma Flintstone!”

“Oh.” Buffy shook her head, frowning. “And how is that supposed to show us the inner Fred?”

“Well, because she used to live in a cave,” Willow explained.

And once again Buffy was staring. “She did? Why? I mean, I know she’s from the South, but —”

“From Texas,” Willow corrected. “Not Southern at all. No, this was all a big ‘lost in another dimension waiting to be rescued’ deal. Which Angel did. Rescue her. From there.”

“Oh,” Buffy said. “Okay.” She started up the stairs.

“It’s really great that she can laugh about it now,” Willow called after her.

Willow was always just a bit too eager when it came to Fred, as if she could make things right by insisting that they already were. Buffy privately felt it would take more than that to smooth things over between the two of them — while there had been no serious hostilities after the initial explosion, the armistice had been long and chilly — but, again, it was better not to say such things aloud. On the positive side, Willow had shown significantly more discretion in her personal life since the (cause still unknown) falling-out, which was a welcome relief from the somewhat overpowering self-assurance she had picked up from Kennedy.

There was no occult activity on the upper floors, unless terminal mildew rated as supernatural (which would actually not have been the most unlikely thing Buffy had ever faced). The elevator shafts were likewise omen-free. She drew up short of scouting the roof, contenting herself with making sure the access doors were thoroughly secured; at each of the hallway-end windows, though, she surveilled the exterior grounds and fire escapes.

The Hyperion remained stubbornly threatless, but at least she’d done what she could. She went back to the main staircase, stopping at the railing to look down at the revelers in the lobby.

Faith was dancing with Angel now, that customary panther-grace sharply diminished by her being bent almost double with laughter: incredibly, Angel truly was as bad a dancer as Buffy had been warned, at least when he tried for anything more modern than a waltz. Wesley was likewise taking a turn with Fred, his obvious adoration of her giving him a kind of solemn dignity, while Fred’s dancing was jerky and unrhythmic and visibly irrelevant to the fun she was having. Willow was determinedly paying them no attention, talking with suspicious animation to Gunn while Andrew fidgeted at her elbow, no doubt bursting with some geek-king observation of his own.

She and they might as well have been in different universes. Were they really that oblivious, or just in bottomless-deep denial?

There was a sound behind her, a whisper of feet on carpet, and she was already lowering the sword by the time she finished her turn: Dawn, it was just Dawn, regarding her with a smile of familial indulgence. “Sure you’re carting enough hardware there, sis? Because I’ll bet we could scrounge up a minigun from somewhere.”

Buffy shook her head. “You know, as soon as I could see you were going to be taller than me, I should have smothered you. I kept telling myself that, I just never got around to doing it.”

“Well, peroxide does slow down brain function.” Dawn moved up beside her, leaning on the rail to survey the festivities in the lobby. “So, it looks like this party is one beast that even you can’t slay.”

“Give me time,” Buffy returned darkly. “Everything has a weak point.”

“I won’t say you’re wrong about this,” Dawn told her. “You’ve got the Slayer instincts, and the track record to back them up. But we’re none of us novices anymore, and we can’t spend our lives on red alert.” She laid one hand over her sister’s. “We’re always looking at one hell-threat or another. Who says we can’t enjoy ourselves a little while we wait for the next one to pop up?”

Buffy sighed, and inspected Dawn head to toe. The younger girl was wearing a light, knee-length dress made up of layers of some sheer, gauzy material, with filmy sleeves and a (for Dawn) relatively high neckline. Her only accessories were ankle-strap sandals and a rather robust necklace. Her hair was brushed to glossy brilliance, and she stood with an easy elegance that was only emphasized by its being unstudied and automatic. She was chic, poised, and heartbreakingly beautiful. Whatever happened to the pigtails and scabby knees?

“You look great,” Buffy said almost grudgingly. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a costume, though.”

The sudden grin made her sister look five years younger. “That’s because I haven’t made my entrance yet. Watch.”

She took hold of one of the stones of the necklace, and squeezed. The layers of her dress stirred and shifted, then began to rise and swirl lazily around her like streamers of smoke; a vague, subtle glow appeared and grew stronger, and within ten seconds Dawn was surrounded by what appeared to be restless, undulating currents of green energy.

“Okay, that’s just creepy,” Buffy said. “I get it, but it’s still creepy. And how do we know the amulet isn’t dangerous?”

“It’s not an amulet,” Dawn corrected her. “It’s a control band. In fact, it isn’t even magic. Fred worked it up for me, some kind of ionization effect. Is this cool, or what?”

“It’s cool,” Buffy admitted. “If they give a prize for best costume, you’ll probably win.”

“Unless they’re judging on sex appeal,” Dawn said. “If they are, Gunn’s a shoe-in. Woo! He has _really_ been toning up!”

“Am I going to have to kill him?” Buffy wondered musingly. “Or just lock you in your room till you turn forty?”

“You’re fighting the tide, sis.” Dawn hugged her sister. “But, just for you, I’ll make sure the video stays off the Internet.”

“Devil sibling,” Buffy said.

“Learned from the best.” Dawn stepped away from the railing. “You coming down? I think people are starting to worry.”

Buffy snorted. “About time!”

“No,” Dawn said, shaking her head. “I mean, worry about you.”

Not unexpected, but it still stung. “I believe I’ll make a few more sweeps first,” Buffy said. “You know how this stuff works: I relax, I let down my guard, and then the cake explodes and hex-blasts start ricocheting off the walls. We’ve been through this so many times, they might as well print programs. This time, though, I won’t be the one walking around with the KICK ME sign. You want to tempt fate, go ahead; I’ll be here to start the counterattack and say _I told you so.”_

Dawn sighed. “You remember your 21st birthday, when nobody could leave the house and that thing was popping in and out of the walls, trying to kill whoever it could reach?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buffy said. “The Party That Wouldn’t Die. And people wonder why I hate birthdays. No, I’m not about to forget a frolic-filled event like that. Which is why I don’t want to see any such thing happen again.”

Dawn gave Buffy a tilted look, and one of those tiny smiles that said what came next was to be taken with a grain of humor. “I’m just saying, right now you’re making me nostalgic for those days. You want to stay alert, go ahead, but lighten up some, okay? Smile a little. ’Cause Mom was right: your face really is starting to stick that way.”

She was halfway down the staircase before Buffy could even attempt the requested smile. It wasn’t fair, making her feel guilty for trying to be _responsible._ Why was everybody ganging up on her?

She shook her head sharply, reminding herself to focus. Let’s see … Sewer access, Angel would be sure to have sewer access in any place he used as headquarters, which meant something else might be able to use it as an entrance. Deliberately turning her attention from the party in the lobby, Buffy began to look for a way to whatever basements this place had.


	2. Chapter 2

No amount of searching could unearth any kind of threat. Which, of course, did precisely nothing to improve her mood.

 _Maybe it would be different if Giles were here,_ she thought, returning from the basements. Giles was hardly the man to indulge her every mood, but she couldn’t see him shrugging off her conviction that tonight was one huge honking cataclysm just waiting to rain down on them. When had he _ever_ been the first to look on the bright side of anything? Besides, psychic Slayer forewarning, right? When it came to world-endage, the Chosen One definitely was on the mailing list, and the Watchers knew that better than anyone else …

She let her breath out with a vexed fluttering of her lips that any listener was perfectly welcome to categorize as a rude noise. No, Giles wasn’t here … but Wesley was, with all the Watcher training and (by now) nearly as much experience, and he was boogying down with the rest, not a care in the world. Faith, too: no Slayer foreboding bothering _her._ It was almost enough to make Buffy wonder if she really was being paranoid —

No. It was there, she could feel it. There was authentic, full-on evil lurking around somewhere. If one of the world’s premier gatherings of demon-fighters was oblivious to it, well, that was a mystery, not a repudiation. Whatever else happened tonight, she’d be on the line. Steadfast Buffy. Vigilant Buffy. Seriously-peeved-just- _waiting_ -to-rub-everybody’s-faces-in-it Buffy.

With the basement levels obstinately empty, she took another swing past the lobby, sticking to the periphery and avoiding interaction with the celebrants. Dawn’s costume really was striking, and yes, she was dancing with Gunn, who had the bad-ass Wesley Snipes ’tude down cold. Would it be a bad thing if the two of them actually did get involved? Despite her earlier comments, Buffy truly was on the fence where that question was concerned. Upside, the crew that had gathered around Angel were, hands down, some of the finest people living, and they could definitely hold their own when mystical badness erupted. Downside, they were just as good at attracting supernatural uglies as they were at fighting them. Besides, Dawn was supposed to go to work for the U.N. when she finished at Berkeley, and it wouldn’t look good at all for her to be dating someone who had been implicated (charges dismissed for lack of living witnesses, but still) in the assassination of a senatorial candidate …

She heard the click of the handle on one of the main doors, and was watching it by the time it opened. Poised for combat or confrontation, she was nonetheless flummoxed by the person who walked in. It had been years, she had never expected to see her again, and the once-vapid face showed a maturity she wouldn’t have believed, but it was unquestionably —

“Lily?” Buffy said, in a tone that even to her sounded more disbelieving than welcoming.

“Anne,” the woman corrected her. “I finally found a name that stuck. How are you, Buffy? They said you’d be here.”

They? “Um, you mean Angel or the others hauled you in on this?”

‘Anne’ smiled, and again Buffy was struck by how different she looked while somehow being recognizably the same person. “Yes, I met Angel a couple of years after the last time I saw you. It was actually Charles who invited me here, though.”

Again Buffy could feel herself flashing blank-face, and she shook it away. Unless Wesley was using an alias, Charles would have to be — “Gunn?” she ventured.

Anne nodded. “I don’t actually mix with Angel that much — nice as he is, I’d like to keep his world separate from the kids I work with — but Charles has helped out a lot at the shelter, and we’ve … well … he and I —”

That effortless assurance wavered for a moment, just long enough for Buffy to see a glimpse of the old Chantarelle/Lily, and now she too was smiling. “You and Gunn,” she said. “He must have a softer side he never let me see.”

“He does,” Anne confirmed. “Uh, I don’t know my way around. Is there some place for me to put my coat?”

“Just hand it to me,” Buffy told her. “I’ll tuck it away in the office.” She had vaguely wondered at the light coat Anne was wearing — the L.A. weather was characteristically mild — but as Anne removed it, she understood: underneath, Anne was wearing a Renaissance Faire gown, and from the bag she was carrying she withdrew a high-peaked cap, positioning it on her head so that the attached veil hung behind her.

It suited her, but if Anne was following tonight’s theme, there was also a meaning attached. “Fairy-tale princess?” Buffy guessed.

“Damsel in distress,” Anne explained. “You saw that a couple of times, and there have been others. I’m still trying to outgrow that part of me.”

Was she kidding? Chantarelle had been a consummate moron, and Lily only just beginning to show potential, but this woman was so together, it required a determined effort to keep from being actively jealous of her. “Let’s get you to Gunn,” Buffy said. “I mean, Charles.”

That wasn’t necessary, however. As she turned, she saw Gunn spot Anne; his face lit up, and he hurried in their direction, deserting Dawn (Buffy noted) without hesitation. Buffy headed for the office to put away Anne’s coat, shaking her head. Apparently she wouldn’t be needing to make any decisions about the advisability of a match between Gunn and her baby sister. Not that it would keep her from having to deal with Dawn and _somebody_ in the near future; it was a wonder, in fact, that no major entanglements had arisen by now. After all, at Dawn’s age Buffy had already — with Angel —

Bad brain! Bad, _bad_ brain! Go to bed without supper, bad brain!

It actually wasn’t too surprising that Dawn had remained boyfriend-free, Buffy thought as she again skirted the party in the lobby. Having to stake the first guy to ask her out must surely have put a hitch in Dawn’s attitude toward dating, and the mortification of her subsequent crush on enchanted-jacket-R.J. wouldn’t have done much to improve it. (Not to mention the further damage from her catching Buffy straddling the guy of her dreams on top of a desk.) And after that, things had just gotten too hectic to allow much thought for romance, what with the First starting to manifest and the Potentials beginning to trickle in —

Anguish crashed over her with startling intensity, and Buffy struggled to jerk her mind to a different set of thoughts. Later, focus on later, the task of setting up the temporary headquarters at the Cleveland Hellmouth with the survivors of Sunnydale — no, _not_ helping! Later yet, then, farther ahead: coordinating with Giles and Robin to go international, working up a large-scale training program for the new girls who kept coming in —

God! God! _God!_

She broke from the office, running with blind instinct for the nearest stairs, heedless of the others in the lobby beyond the need to get away from them, find a safe place where she could shut out the world around her and just huddle into herself —

There was someone at the top of the stairs, she tried to dart past him but he caught her by the wrist, swinging her around. She struck at him in the same instant her eyes registered long, curly hair, a penciled-in mustache, some kind of tunic over a puffy-sleeved shirt … He reacted before she could pull the punch (he shouldn’t have been quick enough), blocked it (his arm should have broken), and even as she was struggling to adjust to this unexpectedly capable opposition, he spun into a crazily disjoined aerial cartwheel that whipped a kick into her face.

She went tumbling down the stairs, the multiple impacts meant little to her but she couldn’t grab any purchase to recover her balance. At the bottom she turned her momentum into a roll that brought her back to her feet, her assailant was almost on her but she was ready now, except that years of ingrained reflex snapped her around to face something behind her. She’d heard the release of a taser dart, she swatted the barbs aside but even the partial charge staggered her for a fraction of a second, what the hell that was _Fred_ with the taser! Willow was behind Fred, hands raised and glowing, Angel and Faith were coming at her from either side, fast and focused and determined. The doom, the doom was upon her, she’d been looking everywhere except in _them,_ and she had barely begun the shift that would allow her to face them one at a  time instead of simultaneously, when shockingly powerful hands closed on her from behind — the mystery guy, the whoever-it-was with the poofy sleeves! — immobilizing her for a crucial instant. One of Faith’s trademark axe-kicks scythed down at her, Buffy jerked her head out of the way but the booted foot smashed into her shoulder with awful force, and Angel was right behind it, his face set with resolve. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then his fist filled her vision and bright light filled her head.

*               *               *

Voices. Loud and angry, controlled and forceful, rushed and conciliatory, they ran the full gamut. Her filters were fuzzed, she couldn’t tune through the static or remember why she wanted to, and then the _tone_ behind a short, harsh phrase snapped her into focus, Xander Xander oh God if Xander was against her too she’d just have to die, and she summoned all her will and did a dead-lift of her eyelids, she had to know if she was pierced by that last devastating lance of doom.

Xander. But he wasn’t looking at her; he was facing Angel, set square with every muscle tense, and Gunn was watching him warily from one side while Willow babbled from the other, Fred and Wesley were in the background (no sign of Andrew or Dawn), and Faith was hanging far back, face completely without expression.

“— think I’d want to know?” Xander was saying, and she could remember exactly when was the last time she’d heard that hard burr in his voice ( _— If they hurt Willow, I’ll kill you. —_ ). “Didn’t you think I might want to offer my opinion before you all _ganged up and ambushed her?!!”_

“There was no time,” Willow insisted, her eyes pleading for understanding. “We only got the warning at the last minute, we had to pull something together fast, we’d have told you if you’d been here or if we could have reached you, but she was all over the place and I could feel it getting stronger, we couldn’t _wait_. I’m sorry, but we couldn’t wait.”

Xander looked from Willow back to Angel, and Buffy could see the deliberate relaxing of his shoulders. “All right,” he said to Angel. “I don’t like it, but you’ve racked up some credit the last few years, and Willow vouches for the story. So, what do we have to do now?”

Angel shook his head. “I’m not in charge of this. The word was passed to me, and this is our turf, so I set up the plan to take her down. Now, though, it’s all up to Willow and Wes.”

“Then get to it,” Xander said. He looked to Buffy at last, and saw that she was conscious again. “Sorry, Buf. We’ll get this cleared up as fast as we can, I promise.”

Willow beckoned to Wesley, who moved forward. He, too, was watching Buffy closely, though he didn’t smile. “This phase must be carried out with utmost delicacy,” he told Willow, in the tone of one re-stressing a point that had already been made several times. “We still have only a vague notion of the nature of this entity, and can’t know which probes might harm her. You’re certain she’s properly immobilized?”

“You don’t get guarantees,” Willow replied, and gave Buffy a little grimace of regret and apology. “But between my spell-bonds, Fred’s inhibitor collar, and all that duct tape … Honestly, Gunn, _duct tape?”_

Buffy couldn’t see him, but he answered promptly. “You do your kind of magic, I do mine. Man _can’t_ go wrong with duct tape.”

 _Hell,_ Buffy thought with bleak clarity. _I’m in hell._

“Anyway, together they should hold her while I get some idea of what we’re dealing with here.” Willow held her hands out over Buffy’s body, fingers flexed curiously. “Sorry, Buffy, I’ll be as careful as I can. Try not to resist … if, you know, you still have any control.”

With Willow occupied, Wesley glanced to Xander, and his voice took on a cautious, placating quality. “As I’m sure you understand, separating a possessing force, once it has infiltrated a host, is far more complex than simply killing it would be. We’ll exercise every possible care, of course, and I’m confident that among us we can find a way —”

“Uh-oh,” Willow said.

“What?” Xander pushed forward. “Don’t say that, Wil. You know I hate it when you say that.”

Dawn was there now, and she and Angel started talking at the same time, but Wesley quelled them both with a sharp gesture. “You sense something?” he asked Willow.

Willow shook her head. “No. I’ve got nothing.”

“Well, then, a different form of probe —”

“No, no, you don’t get it,” Willow said. “I’ve got _nothing._ I’ve run the full scale on her, and zero. If something was there, I’d know. If it were shielded, I’d at least pick up the shields. I’m not getting anything. Zilch, _nada,_ the big blankarooni.” She glanced around at the onlookers. “She’s clean.”

“Oh, is she?” Xander’s eyebrows rose, and his smile was tight and sardonic. “And pretty thoroughly pissed off by now, I’ll bet.”

In the long silence that followed, Gunn said, “There’s some demon snitches gonna be wearin’ their appendages in really uncomfortable places, this time tomorrow.”

“The line forms behind me,” Angel added darkly.

“Yeah, right.” Xander looked around, still with that thin smile. “Does anybody but me think it might be a really good idea to de-spell, de-inhibit, and unwrap the angry blonde girl on the carpet?”

Willow made a little _oop!_ sound, and Buffy felt something slide away from her as her friend sketched a series of no-doubt-magical curves in the air above her. Wesley pulled something from her neck — presumably the inhibitor collar Willow had mentioned — and Gunn knelt next to her, muttering, “Sorry about all this,” and began to work on the duct tape with a short knife from his boot.

“So,” Xander was saying. “Can anybody fill me in on exactly how we managed this … excuse me while I call up the proper Watcher terminology … this appalling bloody cock-up?”

Multiple persons began simultaneously to offer explanations, but Buffy couldn’t follow it, especially when they started to argue with one another over what were the actual facts. Wesley was going on about warnings of subtle but increasing paranoia, with Willow interrupting to point out that the entity they’d been watching for was supposed to make its host especially mistrustful of his/her closest friends … It was too much, and she tuned it out to concentrate on working some feeling back into her hands and fingers. The mini-cabal that had arrayed itself against her hadn’t spared the overkill; between the several hits she’d taken, and the layers of security they’d slapped on her once she was down, she was needing a scary amount of time to come back to normal. Unfortunately (or maybe lucky, for them) her voice was trailing even behind the rest of her. There was quite a bit she was aching to express — and in vivid detail — but she couldn’t make her throat form words just yet, so she had to satisfy herself with general glaring about while she figured up exactly what she _would_ be saying, once she could.

Fred and Wesley were the most volubly apologetic (Fred could out-babble Willow, which shouldn’t have been humanly possible); Gunn was gruff in his embarrassment, while Willow focused half on explanations and half on mystical therapy to speed her friend’s recovery. Angel, too, had his attention split between his own people and his guests … including the person, still unidentified to her, who had kicked Buffy down the stairs.

In fact, he was even now addressing the newcomer. “No, no, Connor, this isn’t criticism. You caught her off-guard — our information said that only a stranger could do that, and you were the only one of us she didn’t know who’d be quick enough to land a strike and strong enough to make it count — you caught her out, sent her down to us, kept her busy while we followed up. You did everything right, believe me.”

“So what’s the problem?” Buffy could see now that ‘Connor’ was younger than she had thought, probably still in his teens, not especially tall but lean and sinewy; he had a face that could easily lend itself to petulance (though he was smiling now), and what she had first thought to be long hair was identifiable as a curly wig. “Come on, I know that expression,” he went on. “There’s something you want to say, but you’re afraid of how I’ll take it. Well, just say it, and we’ll go on from there.”

“It’s not a problem,” Angel corrected. “I’m just … puzzled. We filled you in right after you got here, then we had to position you to intercept Buffy, so there was no time to ask …” He trailed off, shook his head. “Your costume. What’s it supposed to mean?”

Connor’s smile widened. From a sheath at his waist he drew a long, slender sword with a basket hilt, and held it vertically before him in a precise, formal salute. “Hello,” he intoned dramatically. “I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

“Oh.” Something passed between them, a fleeting sense of meaning that Buffy couldn’t interpret, and then Angel glanced away. “Well. Okay, then.”

“Hey, lighten up,” Connor said. “Yeah, it’s there, but it’s like _your_ costume. Real as far as it goes, but reality goes farther. I came here to party. We good?”

Angel nodded with obvious relief. “We’re good.”

The last of the duct tape had been removed, and Gunn and Dawn together helped Buffy to her feet. Xander, she saw with an unexpected forlornness, had moved away and was now talking avidly with Anne, some dozens of feet away. She caught a snatch of his words: “— with Team Angel now? How long —?” And Anne was shaking her head in denial, and Buffy looked away, stuffing back feelings she didn’t have the time to try and analyze.

“I didn’t know,” Dawn said, placing her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “I’d have helped them — they thought you were possessed, they were trying to save you, you’d better _bet_ I’d have helped them — but I didn’t know. They were afraid I wouldn’t be able to hide it, so they just spread the word among the heavy hitters.” Her eyes held Buffy’s. “I wanted you to know I wasn’t acting, okay? You and me, that was you and me, nothing else. Can you believe that?”

Buffy’s throat made a really disgusting phlegmy rattle, but finally it was working again. “Lucky for me,” she wheezed. “That you weren’t in on it, I mean. You always did fight dirty.”

Dawn’s smile was suddenly as bright as it had been when she was a gap-toothed eight-year-old. “Don’t you forget it,” she said, and hugged her sister.

Angel was back beside her, his voice joining Fred’s and Wesley’s. “This wasn’t what we were planning, I’m sorry —” “— just so _mortified,_ I feel awful —” “We had the best intentions, as I’m sure you understand, but all the same —”

A high ringing sound penetrated the jumble of faltering apologies, and everyone turned to face the main stairs. Xander stood there, halfway up, tapping a spoon against the side of a punch glass in the standard testimonial dinner/wedding reception call for attention. “This wasn’t exactly the party I thought I’d be coming to,” he announced when everyone else had fallen silent. “We’ve done this dance before, though, so I can cope. But there’s one thing I’m hoping somebody can answer …”

Behind them, there was a harsh crackle and a choked gasp, and the assembled party spun to see Faith lurch and fall to her knees, and Anne jammed the handheld stun-gun against the other woman’s ribs and triggered it a second time. Angel started for the two of them, Gunn close behind him, but incredibly Xander was faster, sprinting through the throng to slap the inhibitor collar around Faith’s neck. “Spell her, Wil!” he snapped. “Spell her _now!”_

Willow was as taken aback as the rest of them, but this was a trust reinforced by years of hard experience: she obeyed, sketching the appropriate gestures over their fallen comrade, and then looked to Xander, and then down at Faith, in growing comprehension.

“The one thing I’d really like to know,” Xander continued conversationally to Angel, “is this: when your demon informants tipped you about the Slayer being infiltrated by this paranoia whatsis, did they by any chance happen to mention _which_ Slayer?”


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy sighed. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Careful,” Xander warned. “I’m the patent-holder on that one, I could sue if you don’t pay the proper licensing fee.”

“Right now, I think I could mount a pretty credible challenge in court.” Buffy shook her head. “There I was, peeking under the rugs and watching to see if any of the tableware moved by itself, and all the time my friends were humoring me while they worked out how to hit me with a surprise smackdown. Is there an ‘L’ on my forehead? I could swear I feel an ‘L’ popping out there.”

After the unexpected immobilization of Faith, Buffy had retreated to her second-floor room, vowing dire consequences if anyone disturbed her before she was good and ready to emerge. The others, still sheepish over their earlier error and now focused on freeing Faith from her presumed domination, had left her to her own devices. Twenty minutes later, Xander had come to report that Faith was suitably liberated, and was currently being released from the composite binding process that had so debilitated Buffy. Despite her prior dark threats, Buffy had admitted him without resistance, his steadfast cheerfulness (and the fact that he, at least, hadn’t participated in her ambushing, however necessary it might have seemed) making his appearance welcome.

“You’re too down on yourself, Buf,” he said now. “You were right all along, there was a neat little bomb just waiting to go off in the middle of the party. You were watching for it, and you being so antsy got the others to wondering if there really might be something going on. Angel’s contacts slipping him a warning, that just gave them some idea where to look.”

“Right,” Buffy scoffed. “Sorry, Xan, not buying it. Everybody blew me off, you included. It was like they didn’t _want_ to believe.”

“Probably didn’t,” he agreed amiably. “You’re not the only one who gets tired of riding around full-time in the dangermobile; sometimes we all just feel like kicking back for awhile. But just ’cause we were determined to have a nice, festive little gathering doesn’t mean nobody took you seriously.”

“Seriously?” She glared at him. “A costume party, Xander. You all made it a  _costume_ party. That’s how serious everybody was.”

He grinned back, unperturbed. “Uh-huh. Did you happen to notice just how many of those costumes included weapons? And that was only the stuff you could see.”

Buffy considered it. He was right. Angel and Faith and Willow were essentially weapons themselves, but most of the others seemed to have been strapped in some manner or another. “So they weren’t just ignoring me.”

“No way.” Xander lounged back in the armchair. “When Gloomy Buffy shows up, we may groan, but we pay attention. She keeps doing this annoying being-right thing. And hey, surprise, she was right tonight, too.”

“I still feel dumb,” Buffy muttered.

“Well, you can get major guilt-cookies out of Willow over this one. She was so sure she could track what was going on, except then she finds out she’s been pointing all her witchy awareness in the wrong direction.” He tilted an eyebrow toward Buffy. “Go easy on her, okay? Better yet, laugh at her a little, like it’s okay to tease her because it was no big deal.”

“Yeah, sure.” She frowned slightly. “That must have been one sneaky demon, if it could slide past Willow.”

“Well, she _was_ feeling it,” Xander pointed out. “But she couldn’t look too hard, not then. The way she explained it was like fighter planes: they do as much as they can with passive sensors, once they turn on their targeting radar they’d better _have_ a target ’cause they just alerted everything within five hundred miles. Our guys didn’t want to give this thing a chance to mess you up, so they skated clear of you till there was a chance to hit you with somebody you didn’t know. And that worked out fine; with everybody zeroed in on you, the thing inside Faith didn’t feel any threat at all.”

“And you had Anne zap her because this possessing-whatever would have been keeping its guard up against all her friends?”

“That’s what it sounded like Wesley and Willow were saying. And it kinda seemed to me that I couldn’t afford to take any chances.” He let out a short, rueful chuckle. “ ’Course, it was a chance either way. Hope you don’t mind me hiding here till Faith has time to cool down.”

Buffy smiled. “As if. Everybody there heard ‘Slayer in danger’, but _you_ were the one who thought of Faith. She’ll be tickled that you rated her right up there with me.”

Xander pursed his lips. “Huh. Good point.”

They sat together in one of the familiar, comfortable silences that had been too rare of late. Then Xander stirred and said, “So, what’s the deal?”

“Hmm?” Buffy gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“Your oh-so-accurate case of the heebies isn’t all that’s been happening with you the last few days,” Xander said. “You’ve had a real mood going, that’s one reason we all gave you plenty of room, and why it was so easy for them to believe you’d been infiltrated. And Dawn … she told me she saw you, right before you ran up the stairs and into Wonder Boy’s foot. She said … well, she said I should talk to you.”

“Did she, now?” Buffy shook her head. “Dawn may think she wants to be a Watcher, but she’s not mine. I don’t need her calling the EMTs every time I’m dealing with a little case of the blues.”

“Is that all it is?” Xander asked. “ ’Cause she thought there was more to it than that, and I’m getting the same kind of vibe.” He reached out to rest his hand on hers. “Remember how it was for you after we did our Miracle Max routine on you, back in the ’Dale? You were dying inside, and you wouldn’t let us see it, and we all kept giving each other cheery-talk instead of sitting down with _you_ and working out what was the truth and what we should do about it. The way things got …” He shook his head. “I still get ashamed every time I remember it. I swore I’d never let you be that alone again. So, here we are. If there’s a deal, I’m the guy you can talk to. We may not always agree, but you know you can trust me.”

“I do,” Buffy said. “I do know it. And I do trust you.”

She fell silent, and Xander waited, his patience relaxed and unforced; her demeanor was that of someone searching for the right words. At length she said, “I’ve had a lot of ghosts around me lately.”

“Huh,” Xander said. “But you didn’t mention anything, which makes me think you mean that figuratively.”

Buffy nodded. “Real ghosts probably wouldn’t bother me nearly as much. This is …” She broke off, bit her lip, and started again. “Do you remember when we found out that Vi was about to have a birthday, and Faith wanted to throw her a party, only then she learned how young Vi actually was?”

Xander shuddered. “Whoo. Not about to forget that. I hadn’t seen Faith so mad since she gave up killing people as performance art.” He shot Buffy a sharp look. “That’s what’s bothering you? Vi’s one of our best now. The field teams and the teaching staff keep fighting over who gets to have her next. Vi’s fine, you know that.”

“It was here,” Buffy said. “We were still trying to pull ourselves together after the big Sunnydale collapse, Vi’s birthday was going to give us something to celebrate … It was here, and I keep remembering all those girls, how _young_ they were, how many of them never made it this far —” She stopped. “Xander, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I’m going on like this. Not after what _you_ lost there.”

“Not a problem.” Xander shook his head. “You keep forgetting, Anya wasn’t the first person I lost. That was Jesse; he was gone without ever having a chance, without any kind of goodbye. Anya, she went into that last fight with her eyes open, like we all did. And we had our goodbye.” He smiled at Buffy. “I loved her, and it hurt when she died, but I worked through that. Now is about you. Keep going.”

Buffy sighed. “Did you know it’s almost exactly ten years since I was called as a Slayer? That was here, too; here in L.A., anyhow. One day, my life is all about whether my shoes should match my lipstick; the next, destiny comes down on me like a freakin’ avalanche. I spent all that time trying to hold onto myself, here and then in Sunnydale, do my mystical duty without letting it bury me. Only it  _did_ bury me, but I still wasn’t off the hook, I got pulled back onto the treadmill. And I cried and moaned and wanted to die, and I hated the people who’d done that to me …”

She looked to Xander. “And then I was the one to do it. To over a thousand girls, all over the world. They’ve been coming in ever since, as quick as we can find them, and more turning up all the time. Some as young as I was, ten years ago. Some younger. They look at me with those eyes, scared and excited and worshipful and _trusting,_ they call me ma’am and wait for me to give them the magic answers. And I was the one who ended their lives, made them over into little Buffy clones.” She let out a long, sobbing breath. “Mostly I bear up, but sometimes it comes in on me. Sometimes it’s like I killed them all. Maybe those are the ghosts I keep imagining.”

Xander’s hand tightened over hers, but he sat without speaking, looking past her. At last he said, “Buf, you know I love you, but you really can be terminally clueless.”

Stung, she pulled her hand away. “I never claimed it made sense, Xander. But it really is how I feel. You _asked_.”

“I know, I know.” He sighed. “Okay. Right at the start, let’s remember that the First was all set to unleash a horde of übervamps on the world, with who knows what else behind them. Every two-bit warlock and would-be vampire lord has his fantasies about ringing in the apocalypse, but this character was on track to pulling it off. So, all those lives you changed, without asking their permission? they only _have_ their lives because you were there to make the hard choices and follow them through.

“That’s only part of it, though.” He gave her the wide, careless grin of old. “Andrew tells all these stories about me covering Africa when we started the first sweep for new Slayers. First of all, you know I did that for less than six months. Second, nobody can ‘cover’ Africa; it’s not a country, it’s a  _continent,_ with every kind of landscape you can imagine and more languages than anybody can count. A lifetime wouldn’t even scratch the surface.”

“You did good work there,” Buffy objected. “I’ve seen the reports. From Giles, who doesn’t gush, and Robin, who’s not exactly your biggest fan.”

“I had some luck,” he acknowledged. “I’m just saying that the legend of Xander the intrepid explorer is mostly hype from people more interested in a cool story than in the truth. But, yeah, I was there. And let me tell you, six months in Africa is an education you can’t get anywhere else.”

Buffy frowned. “I don’t understand what that has to do with —”

“Some of the spots I visited, demons avoided because there was too much competition.” Xander grimaced. “You’ve heard the stories — nasty little wars, ethnic cleansing, child soldiers, even human trafficking — but you can’t know what it’s like unless you’ve seen it. I had no idea how _lucky_ I am, how lucky we all are, till I got over there. I’m not saying it was a non-stop horror show. Some places, I’ve never been more welcome, or felt more at peace with myself. But when it was bad, it was a degree of bad that you have to see to understand. And there are plenty of other areas in the world that have their own brand of harsh.

“The new Slayers coming in … they’re not like you, Buffy.” He took hold of her hand again. “These girls, these _kids_ … they don’t see things the way you do. Especially not the way you did when it was just you. For a lot of them, getting that Slayer call is the best thing that ever happened to them. They’re strong now. They’re special. They’re in a sisterhood. The things that used to scare them, are scared of _them_ now. And they have a leader they can admire and trust.”

Xander gave her hand another squeeze, and then let go. “You changed their lives, all right. Just like you did with mine. And I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“I …” She blinked, shook her head. “I’ve felt so guilty. The way they look at me, idolizing me when all the time I was the one who took away their choices, it’s like I was this horrible fraud. But if what you’re saying is true —”

“It is,” he assured her. “I’ll bet at least half of them have more choices now than they ever would’ve without you. As for how they look at you …” Xander grinned again. “You have to remember, teenagers are _dumb_. Some of them idolize you ’cause that’s what they need in their lives. Some of them probably think you look like Britney Spears. And some … some are just grateful. Simple as that.”

For some minutes they sat silently again. Part of Buffy didn’t want to let go of the melancholy that had gripped her; it had its place and its purpose, and many of the roots truly were valid. The sense of aloneness was gone, though, and the guilt seemed to have been set into a more fitting perspective. Healing magic from the man beside her.

“You’re not a pirate,” she said.

“Hmm? No, I changed my mind. Remembered I’d done the pirate before, the year Anya was a Charlie’s Angel. As for the Sergeant Fury thing, I just didn’t feel like listening to Andrew.” He picked up the hat he’d brought into the room with him, settled it onto his head at a jaunty angle. “Well?”

Buffy studied him. For a second she’d thought he might be going for an Indiana Jones motif, but that possibility failed closer inspection. The hat was white, and broader-brimmed than Indy’s fedora; Xander wore a short-sleeved, square-hemmed khaki shirt with epaulets and flapped pockets, a broad leather belt cinched around it as if it were a short tunic. A sheathed machete hung from the belt, and his trousers (also khaki) were tucked into calf-high boots. The whole of it tickled at a whisper of memory, and she crinkled her brow, trying to pull the thought into focus …

It was the leopard-skin hatband (fake fur, she hoped) that finally did it for her. “Allan Quartermain!” she burst out. “You’re Allan Quartermain!”

Xander tipped the hat to her. “The Great White Hunter himself. It was either this or Car Guy, and I didn’t think there was room in the lobby for a convertible.”

“Good choice,” Buffy said. Then: “Wait. Are you the Richard Chamberlain version, or the Sean Connery?”

“Chamberlain,” Xander returned promptly. “No way would I try to match Connery for testosterone.”

She laughed, and hugged him. “I like your testosterone exactly the way it is. Don’t ever change.”

The kiss surprised them both, but she kept it light, suitable for affection and gratitude, before pulling back again. Passion … things were a little too crazy right now for passion. And this was _Xander_.

Somehow that didn’t seem to mean quite what it once had.

“Let’s go see if Faith is back on her feet,” she said to him. “If she isn’t, we can hover over her and pretend we’re going to shave off one of her eyebrows. If she is, they’ll be wanting to get the party going again.” She gave him a grin of her own. “Think it’s too late for me to put on a leather skirt and a steel brassiere and go out there as Xena?”

“The mind boggles,” Xander said. “But, confidentially? You were a warrior princess already.”

She put her arm in his as they left her room and started for the main stairs. Maybe she could tolerate Angel’s cataclysmic dorkiness after all. Maybe a little fun and silliness was what she’d needed all along. Maybe figurative ghosts could be laid to rest just like real ones.

Maybe … maybe, this coming January, she’d try to have a birthday party.

   
end


End file.
